


to reshape the stars

by jdgfilms (orphan_account)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Beware, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Canon Lesbian Character, Coming Out, Gen, Robin and Steve Are Best Friends, STRANGER THINGS S3 SPOILERS, change my mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:30:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jdgfilms
Summary: In that moment—with her feet planted against the wall of the cubicle, thigh pressed firmly against Steve's, their knees knocking together every once in a while and causing laughter to bubble out in little bursts—she feels a different sort of love unfurl in her chest, replacing the dread that had slowly been building up inside of her until it had almost swallowed her whole.In that moment she feels okay for the first time in a long while, and it sort of feels as if she could reshape the stars to her own liking. With Steve by her side, with someone whounderstands,she feels as if she can do anything.





	to reshape the stars

Robin stares up at the square-tiled ceiling of the bathroom with her back flat on the floor, hair pooling out around her, and her legs propped up against the cubicle wall. The silence is sort of overbearing and she yearns to break it.

“Interrogate me,” she says, her voice slipping into a Russian accent as she does so, without even realising she’s doing it. 

Steve lets out a deep sigh, loud enough for her to hear through the wall of white that blocks him from view. “Interrogate you,” he repeats, uncertain. “Sure.” 

He pauses, letting the quiet settle around them for a moment, before finally saying, “Um… when was the last time you… uh… peed your pants?” 

She laughs, startled. “Today,” she admits, hearing the sound of his chuckle echo and bounce against the stark-white bathroom walls. 

“What?” he asks, a little incredulously, and, honestly, she can’t blame him. Last time she’d checked, eighteen-year-olds don’t often pee their pants, but, then again, most eighteen-year-olds don’t know what it’s like to be stuck underground in a secret Russian base for almost a day straight. 

“Yeah,” she clarifies. “When the Russian doctor took out the bone saw.” 

He laughs again. “Oh my God.” 

“All right. My turn,” she says, pulling herself up off the floor and leaning back until her shoulders collide with the cold wall. She tucks her knees up against her chest, in hopes of keeping warm. “Have you… ever been in love?” 

The question is sort of intrusive—and not to mention very unlike the one he asked her—but she can’t find it in herself to care. (Whether that’s down to the drugs that are slowly beginning to work their way out her system, well… it’s likely.) Besides, he doesn’t have to answer if he doesn’t want to, anyway. 

To her surprise, he does. 

“Yep. Nancy Wheeler. First semester, senior year.” He chuckles, small and not because what he said was funny—rather, the opposite—and imitates a gunshot sound. “Worst mistake of my life,” he mutters, and she only just manages to catch it, given how quiet he says it. 

It’s a shock, of sorts. Obviously, she knew they’d been together, but she never thought it was anything more than a typical high school relationship. 

She rolls her eyes, asks, “Oh my God, really? She’s such a priss.” 

Steve hums in almost agreement, then says, “Turns out, not really.” 

Scoffing, she asks, “Are you still in love with Nancy?” 

“No,” he answers, truthfully, although she’s not sure _how_ she’s able to tell he’s not lying. 

“Why not?” 

Again, the question is intrusive, but he doesn’t seem to mind—instead, _embraces_ it, almost. It’s strange. 

“I… I think it’s because I found someone who’s a little better for me,” he says, before pausing, letting his words sink in. 

Robin thinks she feels her heart starting to beat a little faster, the beginnings of panic setting in. 

Steve chuckles again, and continues. “It’s crazy. Ever since Dustin got home he’s been saying, ‘You know, you gotta find your Suzie. You gotta find your Suzie.’” 

She rolls her head to the side, getting the cramps out of her neck. Curiosity replaces the dread that had been building up, even if only for a split second, and she says, "Wait, who’s Suzie?” 

He groans. “God, I don’t know. Some girl from camp apparently. I guess his girlfriend? But, to be honest with you, I’m not sure she’s even real. I mean, she’s supposedly a genius _and_ hotter than Phoebe Cates?” 

She laughs, loud and sharp. 

Steve seems not to notice, or, if he did, doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“That’s not the point, though,” he says. “That doesn’t matter. The point is… this girl, you know, the one that I like? It’s somebody I didn’t even talk to in school, and I don’t even know why.” 

If that isn’t confirmation enough for her, she doesn’t know what is. She’s almost certain he’s talking about her, because, well, what other girl has Steve been talking to this summer? And, yes, it _is_ entirely plausible that he's been talking to someone else, but, as far as she knows, he’s either been scooping ice cream or hanging out with all those kids he likes to call his friends. The only times she had ever seen him interact with another girl was when he was making a fool of himself at the till, and that was just another tally on the scoreboard. 

Either way, it seems pretty clear. 

He’s still rambling on by the time Robin emerges from her thoughts, and she only catches the last part of his sentence. 

“—should’ve been hanging out with this girl the whole time.” 

She listens, staying quiet, and the dread is pooling in her stomach again, but this time it’s thick and sharp and threatens to leave a burning taste in the back of her throat. 

“First of all, she’s hilarious. She’s so funny.” 

She closes her eyes. 

“I feel like, this summer, I’ve laughed harder than I’ve laughed in a really long time.” 

She’s not sure if there are actually tears welling in her eyes or she’s just imagining something that’s not there. 

“And she’s smart. Way smarter than me. You know, she can crack, like, top-secret Russian codes and… you know? She’s honestly unlike anyone I’ve ever met before.” 

His tone is soft, and she’s not sure if she can take it anymore. She lets her arms drop into the space between her knees, head tucked into the crook of her elbows, and inhales, nostrils flaring, then exhales deeply, expelling all of her breath in one go. 

“Robin?” Steve taps on the stall, a hint of worry edging into his voice. “Robin, did you just OD in there?” 

“No,” she says, and looks up, sighing and pointedly studying the cracks between the tiles that create a repeating pattern on the ceiling. “I… am still alive.” 

The floor squeaks, and Steve slides forward, propelling himself forward through the small space between the floor and the underside of the cubicle. 

He settles in opposite her, and she just looks at him and says, nose wrinkling in distaste, “The floor’s disgusting.” 

He shrugs. “Yeah, well, I already got a bunch of blood and puke on my shirt, so.” He looks at her, eyes boring into her soul. “What do you think?” 

“About?” she prompts, although she knows all too well, to the point that she shouldn’t even _need_ to ask, but she does anyway—if only to put it off for longer than she probably needs to. Just the idea of speaking the words makes her heart pound rapidly in her chest. 

“This girl,” he replies, shaking his head almost imperceptibly as he does so. 

“She sounds awesome,” she says, struggling to keep her voice from noticeably rising and falling the same way her chest is as her breath gets quicker and quicker every second. 

He nods. “She is awesome. And… what about the guy?” 

An almost-smile briefly crosses her face. “He’s on drugs. And he’s not thinking straight.” 

Looking down, he says, “Really? ‘Cause I think he’s thinking a lot more clearly than usual.” 

“He’s not.” 

There is a firmness in her tone, and the way her voice stays steady could be enough to convince her that the dread that courses through her veins is all an illusion, if not for the fact that she can feel every organ and every muscle it sets on fire in her body. 

“Look…” Her voice grows softer. “He doesn’t know this girl. And if he did know her, like—like _really_ know her, I don’t think he’d even want to be her friend.” 

He shakes his head, leaning forward and resting his hands on his knees. “No, that’s not true. No way is that true.” 

She tilts her head back, letting it drop against the tiled wall. “Listen to me, Steve," she says. "It’s shocked me to my core, but I like you.” She can’t help the smile that blooms on her face. “I reallylike you.”

He nods, opens his mouth to say something, but she barrels on anyway, cutting off any chance he could have had at speaking.

“But I’m not like your other friends. And I’m _not_ like Nancy Wheeler,” she finishes, decisively, levelling him with a stare and hoping he’ll understand the point she’s trying to get across. 

He doesn’t. (Not that she really expected him to—she hadn’t particularly explained it in the clearest of terms.) 

“Robin,” he says, slowly. “That’s _exactly_ why I like you.” 

She scoffs. “Do you…” she starts, and the pauses, the dread building higher. She shoves it down, and, sure, she knows she doesn’t _have_ to do this, that she’s not obliged to tell him just because he said he likes her, but is there anything wrong with telling just _one_ person to relieve her shoulders of the burden she’s been carrying around for far too long, of the burden that she’s not the same as everyone else, that she’s different, that that _scares_ her, in a way?

She starts again. “Do you remember what I said about Click’s class? About me being jealous and, like… obsessed?” 

“Yeah,” he says, eyebrows drawing together in confusion but nodding nonetheless. 

“It isn’t because I had a crush on you,” she explains, or starts to, at least. The words catch in her throat, but she tries to ignore it. She’s got to finish what she’s already started. She takes another breath. “It’s because… she wouldn’t stop staring at you.” 

Her lips purse together, and she’s certain there must be glossy sheen over her irises with the way she can feel tears burning at the back of her eyes. 

“Mrs. Click?” he asks, obviously confused. 

She chuckles, letting her head drop ever so slightly. 

“Tammy Thompson,” she says, with a finality she didn’t know she could muster. “I wanted her to look at _me._ But… she couldn’t pull her eyes away from you, and your stupid hair.” Her voice rises higher at the end of every sentence, but it’s out of her control now. “And I didn’t understand, because you would get bagel crumbs... all over the floor. And you asked dumb questions. And you were a _douchebag.”_

The tension is seeping further into her voice every second she continues talking, and he casts his eyes down at the words she lets slip out, but she can’t even stop to feel momentarily sorry.

“And—and you didn’t even like her and… I would go home… and just _scream_ into my pillow.” 

“But… Tammy Thompson’s a girl,” he says, looking at her in what can only be surprise, or confusion. 

Her eyebrows shift upwards slightly and her eyes soften, against her will. _“Steve,”_ she says, and it comes out softer than she thought it would, almost a whisper, almost an unheard word in the quiet of the bathroom and its confining walls. 

“Yeah?” he says, and she only looks at him.

Realisation dawns on him, if the look on his face is anything to go by.

“Oh,” he whispers. 

She nods. “Oh.” 

He leans backwards. “Holy shit.” 

“Yeah,” she sighs, looking up again in what must be the millionth time today. “Holy shit.” 

He doesn’t reply, and she glances over at him, taking in the way his shoulders have dropped and there’s a hint of something else in his eyes—some sort of sense of understanding deep-rooted in them, almost disguised by the swelling underneath it. She briefly wonders why. And then she doesn’t have to. 

The words slip out of his mouth quickly, as if he hadn’t really thought about what he’s saying, as if it’s been steadily expanding inside of his mind for a long time. 

“I think… I think I’m the same. Well, not the same.” He stops, fumbling and stuttering and scrambling for the words, and she knocks her knee against his in reassurance. 

He looks up at her through heavily lidded eyes, his dark eyelashes casting shadows over his face, negative space over negative space, a repeating pattern. 

“Both. I like both,” he clarifies. 

Her breath catches in her throat. The words ring in her head.

_Both. I like both._

It may not be exactly the same, but there is still an underlying sense of mutual understanding, and if that doesn’t make her feel somewhat normal again, then she doesn’t know what does, or what will. If Steve Harrington, once the most popular guy in school, can feel something akin to what she does, then maybe it’s not so wrong after all. She’s come to terms with her feelings, yes, but she’s been fighting them for a long time, and then Steve came along, whirlwind after whirlwind, adventure after adventure, and, God, _Steve fucking Harrington. Guess you’re not all you’re cracked up to be, huh?_

Shaking her thoughts away, she returns her attention to him. “When did you realise?” 

It seems to be intrusive question after intrusive question with them, but neither ever apparently care. 

“God,” he starts. “I don’t really know. It was sort of a slow process, I think.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. 

She doesn’t push him. It takes time, she knows. 

There’s an inhale, followed seconds later by a steady and unhurried exhale. 

“Tenth grade, probably. I just… I just remember that I was with Tommy H—just being with him, I don’t know, probably doing the same stupid shit we always did back then—and I felt this fluttering in my chest and in my stomach. It was the same kind of thing I felt when I looked at Nancy. It wasn’t love, that’s for damn sure, but it certainly felt like it. And what was I supposed to know about love then? I was fifteen, sixteen, and you don’t know shit when you’re that age.” 

Robin nods, a small smile creeping over her features. She understands well enough, but still— 

“Tommy H? You had a crush on _Tommy H?_ God, you really do have bad taste, don’t you?” She laughs, and he soon joins in. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He buries his head in the space between his knees, letting his arms fall over his head. “I know.”

His voice comes out softer that time, and, with a gentle movement, she reaches her hand out, interlocking their fingers together. 

He returns the gesture, squeezes her hand, even, and then looks up at her, a shit-eating grin building on his face. 

“But I had a crush on you, didn’t I? You’re only insulting yourself there, you know.” 

Her eyes widen, in disbelief, in humour, and then she punches his shoulder. She smiles, of course—how could she not? And he smiles back, and it’s angels upon angels, heavens stacked upon heavens, and her heart sings in her chest. The gaps between his teeth that make his crooked smile even more otherworldly give her promise of a new start, another chance at keeping hold of hope, another go on the rollercoaster that has become their life. 

In that moment—with her feet planted against the wall of the cubicle, thigh pressed firmly against Steve’s, their knees knocking together every once in a while and causing laughter to bubble out in little bursts—she feels a different sort of love unfurl in her chest, replacing the dread that had slowly been building up inside of her until it had almost swallowed her whole. 

She knows it’s different from the way she felt about Tammy Thompson, as, after all, her heart doesn’t beat faster and her breath doesn’t catch when she’s with Steve. The only thing she feels is comfort and a strange sense of relief, instead of the impending doom that had cast a dark shadow over her life for God knows how long. 

In that moment she feels okay for the first time in a long while, and it sort of feels as if she can finally, _finally,_ reshape the stars to her own liking. With Steve by her side, with someone who _understands,_ she feels as if she can do anything. 


End file.
